


Personal Jesus

by dareloth



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kink Meme, Romance, Star-crossed, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dareloth/pseuds/dareloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his way back from Mal's funeral, Arthur finds a message in a bottle and falls in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Jesus

 

> _i shut my eyes--_

He did not know what all of this meant to him. He was drunk, that much he was sure of, but given the current situation he supposed there was to be leniency. There was a bottle of something gripped in his fist, and the dull pounding in the front of his skull told him he should not drink anymore. But Arthur could not, not, not think absolutely in straight lines. He was barely aware of lifting the scotch to his lips, tipping his head back, the slow burn. His throat felt as though it might crack open and bleed straight to his stomach.

Arthur needed it. He needed it to forget that Mal had died and that Cobb-- well. Whatever he had done, or not done. His mind tried to grasp the concept that she was gone, tried to wrap around the idea that she would no longer bring the children to the holiday gatherings and regale them with a tale about Christmas with Miles. The children; oh, fuck, the fucking children.

His foot caught the sand, and he fell in the most unceremonious way. Where was he? Cork was the last place he remembered being, far across the vast fields. He took a taxi somewhere, raving quietly to the cabbie as trees and rocks flew by. “You never really realize how close someone is to you until they’re in the fucking ground,” he had drawled, tracing her outline in the space between them. The other had said nothing, asking often when he wanted to stop. Arthur had lolled back against the seat and finally settled on a beach, somewhere he could wander and finish the scotch that was clutched in his hand.

Everything twisted into a caricature of his usually ordered mind.

Little grains of sand trickled into his shoe as he lay there, fingers scrabbling against the soft ground. “Geddup,” he willed himself, rolling, moving onto his back. Arthur supposed he must have looked like an injured or severely incapacitated banana slug.

He could hear the lap of the water against the shore, and knew, knew that a little bit of water in his face would knock him closer to sobriety. Not quite there, but closer.

“Geddup,” Arthur repeated, voice raspy with liquor. He dragged one knee up, a second knee, and he was standing, hallelujah, he was standing. His vision was bleary, and he was vaguely aware of abandoning his bottle as he pressed onward, stooping on even footing to reach forward, cup his hands, and feel the cool water against his face.

He reached forward again, and felt something nudge his hand, bobbing in the saltwater. His movements were sloppy as his fingers wrapped around the object. Glass. Smooth. Had his alcohol come back to him? Blearily, Arthur opened his eyes against the stinging saltwater and took in the green glass that had not previously been there.

Cork.

Arthur slumped back onto his back, unceremoniously pulling the cork with his teeth. There was a slight ache that followed, but he ignored it, shoving the neck close to his eye so he could see inside. There was a small roll of paper, torn, with writing. Message. He had always wondered if people wrote messages this way anymore, and supposed this was as good proof as any.

He struggled; he could not, for the life of him, fit his fingers through the neck. As a compromise, Arthur smashed the bottle against the sand, cringing as the glass shattered and splintered and scattered across the ground. He had to be careful. He knew that, as he plucked the small piece of paper from the remains.

It took a moment for him to unfold it. He fumbled, he grunted against the effort, but he finally managed to flatten it against his knee.

 

> _Let it go, this too shall pass.  
>  \- Ariadne _

And in that moment, slumped against the sand, he wept as his heart swelled.

* * *

 

Ariadne had stood on the dock, watching her message bob away with the hope it would reach someone who needed it. It dipped below the surface for a moment as her mother called her to the van to drive her to the airport.

 

* * *

 

> _and all the world drops dead;_

He had taken a month to himself in Ireland before he got in contact with Yusuf again. The little message had been laminated and was tucked into his front pocket as he strolled down the streets of Mombasa with the Chemist.

“Ariadne would be a Greek name, my friend,” the other said, cordially enough. Yusuf, for all of his eccentricities, could see the adoration that Arthur had for this woman and her little message. “There would be very few other nationalities to use such a lovely and significant first name.”

He was bordering on obsessed. Sheets and sheets of Ariadne on his desk, ranging from Greek to French to American. He needed to know her, to see the woman and bundle her in his arms and weep and thank her. Arthur rolled his head and exhaled, shoulders slumping. Every fiber of his being ached to have her close, near him.

And he was aware of how ridiculous it sounded, being in love with someone without knowing who they were. Arthur did know her handwriting looked young, all curves and loops that were refined enough to be University-aged. She dotted her ‘i’s with small, open circles. He also knew that he loved her in the most terrifying, horrifying way, wracking his brain for any new way to find this woman. Yusuf had tried to help with his connections, but they had turned no young woman up.

“Do not worry. I am sure that fate will bring you together. Romantic, really. Star-crossed lovers,” Yusuf mused, hands digging into his pockets.

“It really isn’t star-crossed. More like... Arthur-crossed,” the pointman corrected. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the two shared a laugh before turning into their usual teahouse. Lighter subjects were discussed over their kettle as Arthur fingered the laminated paper in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

She wondered, sometimes, if someone had found it. The idea would float through her mind at the most inconvenient times. Especially in Miles’ class, she realized, as she drew her urban plans. Ariadne hoped that the bottle had not been lost, and that whoever had found it thought it lovely.

* * *

 

> _i lift my eyes--_

Paris.

“I’ve found an Architect,” Cobb announced. It barely registered in Arthur’s brain, his eyes turning up toward the older man. What Arthur had not been expecting was a girl, slung over his shoulder, his forearm across the backs of her knees. She was small, barely covering half of the extractor’s body before he dropped her onto the lawnchair.

“Oh?” he murmured. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, eyes searching the other’s face for something. Arthur could not read him, though he rarely could. He was more of a blank slate than the pointman, guarded and careful as he should be. As he had been since Mal.

The laminated paper was still housed in his breast pocket.

“Yes, she was in my father-in-law’s class. She’s quite good, already. Thinking outside of the box. Look through her notes,” he offered, as Arthur flipped the PASIV open. He nodded to himself, pulling the leads out and handing them to Cobb. Arthur swiveled to where her stuff had been laid, clutching her notebook in his hands.

As the two were dropped down into their dream, Arthur studied her drawings. Her plans. And then, it clicked in his head-- she had the round circles on top of her ‘i’s. He felt like a crook, flipping to the inside cover and running his fingers over her name, as though he had not seen something so lovely before.  
Ariadne.

His heart caught in his throat.

In the five minutes the two were asleep, he tried his hardest not to weep and hold onto her leg. Arthur regarded her as calmly as he could, eyes alight when she awoke before she looked so shaken. His hands flew to her wrist, her slender hand--

“Hey. Shh. You’re okay,” he cooed, fingertips daring to brush across her forehead. “Look at me.”

In that short moment, Arthur was absolutely certain that he was in love with her.

 

Despite the first unfortunate happening, Ariadne decided to stay. She could not help but notice the way Arthur would steal looks at her from his station. Their eyes would meet, the tips of his ears would redden, and he would duck back into his work without much more flourish. She watched him for some time after that, pressing her lips together before returning to her work.

She wondered if he noticed the way she looked at him, and decided he must.

* * *

 

> _and all is born again._

“What now?”

Ariadne and Arthur stood by the taxi terminal. She looked up at him and shrugged her shoulders before glancing down to her boots, fixing the hold on her suitcase. “I don’t know,” she replied, pressing her lips into a thin smile as she ducked her head.

“Ariadne, I--” he began, and then everything fell away, save for the two of them. “I have been in love with you for years,” Arthur finished carefully, hand slipping into the inside pocket of his jacket. With little finesse, he produced the laminated paper and pressed it into her palm with an expectant look. “I got that. Right after... I came back from Mal’s funeral.”

She looked at the words and her handwriting and looked up at him, lips trying to form words that would not come. He took this as an invitation and an opportunity, lips closing over hers as his hand dropped to her lower back. It was warm, sweet-- a grand symphony that he had longed to be apart of.

They broke away, a little breathless, a little flushed, and she looked absolutely perplexed. Ariadne gently tucked the small thing back into his front pocket, eyes searching the area just beyond him.

“Let’s travel. Somewhere. So I can forget about... about Fischer.”

His hand closed around hers, warm and large and inviting, and to the rest of the world, they must have looked like lovers.

“Let it go, Ariadne,” he murmured against her hair. And she laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners as they ducked into a taxi and drove into something new.


End file.
